


Inside Turn

by MenaceAnon



Series: Malagueña [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Hamilton is secretly a dancer, M/M, Pre-Relationship, all of this is pre-relationship, dance au, in between being treasury secretary, we're in the "pining and occasional sexual tension" part of the series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 18:16:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10496769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MenaceAnon/pseuds/MenaceAnon
Summary: And then, strangely, Thomas’s eyes dart away. As though he’s remembering, vividy – or as though he can’t quite meet James’s stare. James gives him a narrow look, and sits up.“Hamilton was there,” he guesses.“Hamilton was there. And Hamilton wasdancing.”Or: In which James Madison realizes his window is closing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr at [MenaceAnon](http://www.menaceanon.tumblr.com) for more fic that's not on AO3!
> 
> Next installment: Jefferson does some very... hot and heavy soul-searching.
> 
>  
> 
> **Warnings at the bottom!**

Thomas’s knife moves in swift taps, sharp and steady, and leaves behind tidy trails of diced peppers, onions, okra, before he sweeps them aside and turns to cubing the meats. His collar is open, and his sleeves are rolled up over the muscled planes of his forearms.

James settles beside him, back against the long black soapstone counter, and taps his fingers in time with the radio. 

“And,” Thomas continues, “as if that wasn’t enough, I find out he’s been talking to Baldwin about the trade sanctions. I mean god- _damn_! Hamilton is just putting his nose in anything, now, lighting fires to slow me down.” 

James says nothing because he’s already heard all this. He sips his wine and lets Thomas jump from one complaint to another without remark. And as Thomas talks, Thomas cooks: jambalaya and cornbread, collard greens, creamed corn, candied yams. 

It’s not until they’ve staggered together to the table, carrying enough comfort food for ten people, that James finally looks him in the eye and raises his brow. 

Thomas stops talking. Blinks, and looks down at the spread. After a moment, he hangs his head. 

“Yep, alright.” 

“Maybe you’re just hungry,” James says. Thomas laughs, scrubbing a hand over his face. 

James claps him on the shoulder and then takes a seat. 

“You want to tell me what’s wrong now?” 

Thomas swings himself into a chair with a huff, and together they begin piling food on their plates. 

“Nothing’s wrong. It’s not a problem.” 

“Clearly.” 

“No, I mean. There’s nothing that needs to be… fixed. Listen, this is literally the craziest thing to happen to me in years.” 

That gets James’s attention. “You work for the State Department. Crazier than the Saudi Ambassador giving you a giraffe?” 

“Yes.” 

“Alright. Don’t keep me in suspense.” 

Thomas opens his mouth. Pauses. Exhales. “I saw–” He moves one hand in a sort of roll, like he’s trying to scoop the words out of the air. Scratches his forehead, and says, “Okay, I’ll start with Hamilton in the locker room, because I’m pretty sure that’s where this all began.” 

James goes still. Looks at Thomas. “What kind of story is this, exactly?” 

“Not that kind of story,” Thomas tells him irritably, around a bite of jambalaya. He swallows. “He was wearing a towel, and I– I wasn’t paying attention but I glanced down at his legs and, James, they were just bruised to shit. Just, deep black and blue. And I figured, y’know, there’s things I definitely don’t need to know about Alexander Hamilton. Okay? Except _then_ I started to worry! I mean, what if the stupid bastard is in trouble, right? Do I need to do something? Do I tell someone? I was strung out about this for a week.” 

James frowns deeply, wondering when this was, and waves for him to continue. Thomas runs a hand through his hair and sighs. 

“Well, I didn’t tell anyone anything, nothing came of it. I mean, he seemed fine, so I…” 

“Forgot.” 

“Whatever, I was right, he was fine. Because fast forward a few weeks to when all the stuff with Ryan was going down. During the worst of it I was mostly sleeping at the office, as you know, and one night it’s almost two AM, and I’m wide awake. I figure, hey, I’ll head down to the gym, blow off some steam. Except when I got there, there was this music playing.” 

And then, strangely, Thomas’s eyes dart away. As though he’s remembering, vividy – or as though he can’t quite meet James’s stare. James gives him a narrow look, and sits up. 

“Hamilton was there,” he guesses. 

“Hamilton was there. And Hamilton was _dancing_.” 

Which is not how James expected this story to go. Admittedly he’s not quite sure what he _was_ expecting, but it isn’t that. 

“He was…” 

“And I don’t mean ‘grinding at the club’ dancing. I mean the kind of thing you buy tickets to see people do on a stage. He was… Jesus, it was kind of incredible, he did these jumps? And just…” 

Thomas licks his lips and falls silent, eyes scanning avidly over the memory. 

“How does that explain the bruises, exactly?” James says eventually. Thomas sits up, coming abruptly out of his thoughts. 

“No, shit, there’s more! I went to his condo the other day, and–” 

James raises a hand, stopping him. “What happened in the gym? Did you talk to him?” 

“Oh. Uh, nah, he saw me and quit. Turned off the music and left. Like a mysterious Caribbean swan-lady vanishing into the night. We both just pretended it never happened.” 

“Always the healthier option.” 

“But then on Tuesday I went to his place, and this is why–” Thomas gestures to the food, “why everything. He’d been dodgin’ me all day so I got his home address off of Angelica’s phone–” 

“Because there’s no way that could possibly come back to bite you.” 

“–and just went over. He thought I was Peggy Schuyler coming over for dinner, and buzzed me right up. And when I came in he was,” Thomas says, and then he stops like he’s come up against a stone wall. 

This time there’s definitely something furtive in the way Thomas’s eyes dash to the side. And James feels his stomach sink. He sets his fork down, and rubs his knuckles with his thumb. They sit in silence for a little while. 

Eventually, Thomas explains. Explains the way the bar matched the bruising, black and blue and green and yellow, and not just on Hamilton’s legs – explains Hamilton being almost entirely nude. Explains the incredible effortlessness of it all, explains the way he froze up when Hamilton saw him, when James knows it’s a point of pride that Thomas never freezes up when Hamilton is involved. 

He starts to explain the way Hamilton looked, but stops himself, visibly realizing how it sounds. 

“Peggy came in while – he was shoving me out the door.” James hears the empty beat, and wonders what words were left out. “So.” 

“So,” James agrees. 

And then Thomas takes a very long pull of his wine and shakes himself all over. James purses his lips. 

“So, ha, yeah. That’s the story. And I mean, what’s a guy do with that? Besides come up with some really great stripper names. My front runner is ‘The Enormous Tool,’ but I’m open to suggestions.” 

James watches Thomas. Waits until he starts to fidget, then rubs his lips and asks, “Has he said anything to you about it?” 

“Nah, we’re back to pretending it never happened. But I mean. That happened. That definitely happened.” 

“Yes, but maybe it is better if you continue to pretend it didn’t,” James says, and Thomas’s head comes up. 

“Yeah, but–” 

“Thomas, you and Alexander aren’t friends.” James sits back, certain of this course. “The politest framing of your relationship is ‘coworkers,’ and even that carries misleading connotations of cooperation.” 

“But this changes things.” 

“No.” James taps the side of his hand against the table. “It doesn’t.” 

Thomas looks down at James’s hand. He runs his tongue over his teeth, and sucks in a breath, his fingers playing idly with the fork. James waits, and after a while Thomas’s head dips in a begrudging nod. 

He says, “So I can’t call him stripper names.” 

“I urge you to remember that you are the Secretary of State of the United States of America.” 

“Okay, yes, that’s true. Fine.” He peers at James from under his lashes. “But I know you thought the ‘Enormous Tool’ thing was funny.” 

“Only a little,” he admits. 

“Ha!” Thomas sits back, scratches his beard, and looks at the food weighing down the table. He says, “You gotta take some of this home with you.” 

“I will take a little bit.” 

“I made a full Sunday dinner!” 

“You certainly did.” 

“This is too much for just me, it’s gonna go to waste. Either you take some or I gotta like, bring it into the office. Which is a pain in the ass, so I’m gonna need you to step up to the plate here.” 

James opens his mouth to refuse, but stops. Lets Thomas’s curious glance run off his shoulders. Instead he stands, and picks up his unfinished plate. And then he smiles. 

“Maybe I will.” 

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:**
> 
>  
> 
> References to domestic violence – Jefferson implies to Madison that he briefly suspected Hamilton was in some sort of abusive relationship, after seeing some bad bruising on Hamilton's legs. Jefferson also makes it clear that he made no effort to determine whether he was right, and whether Hamilton might need help. He doesn't worry about it again, and eventually finds out that Hamilton was not in an abusive relationship. The bruises were from pole-dancing, which can indeed leave some pretty impressive bruises.


End file.
